• Giggles Bitterspine: He didn’t actually giggle very much. In fact, Kimmy’s son didn’t talk much at all. Which is perhaps why it was weird when he and Froggy seemed to hit it off. How do two people who basically don’t talk become friends? Giggles was the total opposite of his mom: small and skinny and very quiet. Instead of filling a room with his presence, it seemed more like he was perpetually trying to melt into the cracks in the stone floor. While he and Froggy played an old Dwarven card game, they exchanged more looks than actual words.
• Boozy Alemaul: At twenty-two he was the oldest of the group. Boozy was from a legendary family of partiers, which helped explain why he lived in a city famous for its parties. He laughed a lot when we all shared what we knew about Moonwraiths, and didn’t seem concerned that we would soon be facing off against one. Which was especially troublesome when we collectively discovered that nobody really knew how to defeat a Moonwraith. As the oldest of the group, he probably should have been taking this the most seriously. But just the same, there was something about his never-ending smile and carefree attitude that was hard not to like.
• Tiki Woodjaw: At eleven years old, she was the youngest in the group. And she could easily have passed for eight. But don’t let that fool you. The fiery and fierce little girl, with straight black hair that covered her face, cursed more than anyone I’d ever met. Though I’d never even heard of most of the swear words she used. Hanklebump, anyone? Or like when she called Boozy a plorping kunk with a smidgy oppo for a murm. I didn’t know if those were exclusively Dwarven curse words, or what they meant, but they drew some offended gasps from other NOLA Dwarves playing games nearby. Anyway, as long as you’re not easily offended, Tiki was pretty fun to be around.
Overall, they seemed like a fun bunch. But they were also clearly determined to learn as much as they could (Boozy’s nonchalant demeanor aside) about MPMs and magic. They were really eager to show us they could help—that with some training they could be Dwarven warriors as well.
They asked a lot of questions about our past MPMs and how much Galdervatn we had access to back in the Chicago Underground and what it was like to actually fight Elves.
“It’s awesome!” Glam said before anyone could respond. “Just like all the stories you’ve been told growing up!”
“Well, honestly,” Tiki said, “based on the stories I’ve read it doesn’t sound very fun to me. I think it sounds pretty purbogging scary.”
“It is,” Ari said. “And it’s not awesome or fun. It’s horrible.”
“Well, okay,” Glam said, looking flustered. “Maybe I exaggerated a bit. But the Elves we faced were trying to hurt us. And it felt really good to be able to save my friends by smashing things. Elven things.”
“That part is true,” Ari admitted reluctantly.
And I agreed.
When you worked so hard to train for something, practicing for hours, it did feel satisfying to finally use those new skills in a real way to help save family and friends from danger. Even if the other parts of battle were scary and gut-wrenching and nightmarish.
“Mayhap lest we’ll all find out yonder,” Yoley said.
“In fact, really soon,” Boozy said, standing up. “It’s already eleven, which means it’s time to head out and finally take down this Moonwraith!”
CHAPTER 24
The Most Boring and Normal Team of Ghost Hunters Ever Assembled
We were just a normal group of ghost-hunting kids with plain old names like: Thoggus “Froggy” Stonequarry, Lakeland “Lake” Brightsmasher, Ariyna “Ari” Brightsmasher, Glamenhilda “Glam” Shadowpike, Yolebena “Yoley” Ashbender, Giggulir “Giggles” Bitterspine, Boozzoid “Boozy” Alemaul, Masticha “Tiki” Woodjaw, and me, Greggdroule “Greg” Stormbelly.
So yeah, just your standard Dwarven gang hanging out in a haunted cemetery at midnight, looking for trouble.
Well, we weren’t looking for trouble specifically, of course. But when your primary goals are to
find a violent and dangerous Specter and
tart a conflict with said ghost,
then, well, trouble was probably in your future. I wished we had a better plan, but since none of us had ever faced (let alone even seen) a Moonwraith before, we honestly didn’t quite know what to expect outside of the limited details we’d read in our ancient history books. And so we arrived at the cemetery with a general plan to wander around until we found the monster. From there, we’d wing it, kind of like we always did.
St. Louis Cemetery #2 was deserted at midnight. After breaking in through a locked gate, we walked among the maze of tightly packed impressive mausoleums, our eyes peeled open. It was like walking through a small city of miniature brown-and-gray buildings, broken up only by the occasional palm tree.
When I die, Greggdroule, the Bloodletter said as we pushed forward into the silent cemetery, can you bury me in one of these cool tombs?
Like I could afford one.
Need I remind you about that trough of Rock Troll poop worth probably billions of dollars in the modern world?
Yeah, but for how long? I thought. Once the Dawn of a New Magical Age plunges the world into chaos, diamonds will be nothing more than just another mineral.
Diamonds can be very useful for making weapons—they’ll never completely lose their value.
Okay, fine, I thought. But it likely won’t matter since I assume you can’t actually die, can you? And thus will never need a tombstone?
The Bloodletter didn’t answer me.
Up ahead, a strange blue glow lit up the surrounding mausoleums. The nine of us tensed, crouching instinctively as we huddled behind a huge marble tomb. Glam passed around a flask of Galdervatn. Though Tiki and Giggles both had the Ability, we decided it wasn’t a good idea for them to drink any of the swirling essence of magic. Without proper training, it was possible they’d do more harm than good.
“So what now?” Boozy asked, finally looking at least a little nervous.
“Now that we’re all hopped up on magic, I say we just go in there and destroy the thing,” Glam said.
“Do you even know how to do that?” Ari asked pointedly.
“Well, I assume Moonwraiths can be smashed like anything else,” Glam said, momentarily sounding a lot younger than fourteen years old.
“Thy erstwhile discourses gainsaid such avenues of combat,” Lake said.
“Lake is right, we’ve already been over this,” I said. “And we decided that simply taking it by force probably won’t work.”
We had talked about Wraiths back at the Underground as we were preparing for the mission, pooling our collective knowledge on these mysterious, long-dormant creatures.
What we knew: Wraiths were like ghosts, but with more of an actual presence in this world, stuck somewhere between the now, the physical reality, and the spectral plain of the dead. They were deceased people whose spiritual existence was tortured—it wasn’t known whether by something that had happened in their life or that was happening now in their otherworldly present time and place. Moonwraiths in particular only appeared in the waxing gibbous phase of the moon, with the zenith of their power occurring during the first night of a full moon—at which time they became powerful enough to actually kill. The full moon was just a week away, so it was imperative we stop this thing now—tonight. Lastly, it was suspected that Wraiths existed primarily for one reason: to show the rest of the world the pain they carried. To make everyone feel the agony they suffered. Of course, as we’d all discussed these things, the Bloodletter couldn’t help but crack another lame joke in my head: You want to feel my suffering? Imagine being left out in the corner of a room, forced to watch your old owner make out with a hairy Gnarlaak for half an hour.
What we didn’t know: A lot. Turned out old Dwarven texts were pretty light on Wraiths. You see, Dwarves don’t believe in burying our dead (which is admitte
dly odd considering how much we revere the earth). But regardless, it meant that Dwarves historically didn’t spend much time in or near cemeteries. And since Wraiths only appear near graveyards or burial sites, they’ve never been much of a concern for Dwarves, even back in Separate Earth, when they were relatively commonplace. So what we collectively didn’t know about Wraiths could fill a book. Or two. Or a few dozen. And last and probably most important: We still had no idea how to kill one. Or if they could be killed at all. Maybe they merely needed to be banished back into the spectral plane (whatever that even was)? We really had no idea—which was, needless to say, a major problem.
“Well, maybe we start where we always do,” Ari suggested. “We walk out there and try to reason with it?”
We looked at one another with uncertainty. It definitely didn’t sound like a rock-solid plan that was sure to end well. But at the same time, it was probably our best option until we could figure out more about this particular Wraith and what it wanted.
“After you, then,” Glam said.
Ari rolled her eyes but led the way as we crept forward, toward the glowing blue light up ahead.
A dreadful, tortured shriek suddenly ripped into the night. The pure agony behind it was almost as chilling as the ethereal, inhuman reverberation that ran up my spine. Everyone drew their weapons instinctively.
I grabbed the Bloodletter, pulling it free from the sheath on my back.
I already told you I’m useless against a Moonwraith, it said. And so are your companions’ weapons. You may as well just leave us all here. We’ll only slow you down.
I passed this information along to the group.
“Wait, your what told you what now?” Giggles asked, looking confused.
“His ax talks to him,” Glam said proudly.
The NOLA Dwarves’ expressions changed to awe and admiration, even under the layer of obvious anxiety and fear.
“By gods,” Yoley whispered. “You’re Trevorthunn Stormbelly’s kin? The legendary Greggdroule Stormbelly?”
“I am?” I said, shocked they would have heard of me.
“We’ve heard stories about you,” Tiki said. “About how the greatest bloggurgin weapon ever made chose you to rise up and restore our greatness.”
She’s pretty bloggurgin right about that! the Bloodletter boasted to me. At least the part about me being the greatest weapon. It remains to be seen if you’ve got the plorbies to fulfill your destiny and restore Dwarven supremacy.
“And about how you and your father single-handedly defeated the Elf Lord and his whole army!” Boozy added.
“Well, I mean, my friends were there, too,” I said, gesturing at Lake, Ari, Glam, and Froggy. “And we didn’t really defeat them. It was . . . well, more complicated than that.”
“Ah, he’s as modest as the tales foretold!” the normally quiet Giggles exclaimed.
Suddenly they didn’t seem nearly as nervous. Knowing I was the legendary Greggdroule Stormbelly seemed to have given them a burst of assured confidence. Like, if this was a sport, they now knew they had the best player on their team and so they’d win no matter how poorly everyone else played.
But they didn’t know the full truth.
That I never could have done anything great on my own. In fact, you could argue that all I’d ever done so far was manage to make things worse and just happened to have survived by dumb luck. Anything good I’d accomplished was mostly the result of help from my friends as opposed to anything I personally had done.
I opened my mouth to tell them this, but their excited chatter over the fact that they were looking at the Bloodletter, right now, in my hands, cut me off. I’d forgotten that the weapon was famed and revered among kids who grew up learning about Dwarven culture their whole lives. It was basically the Dwarven mythical equivalent of Excalibur. But greater, since most Dwarves never questioned whether the Bloodletter was actually real.
“Guys, this is great and all,” Ari said. “But can I remind you about the Moonwraith just past these mausoleums? Like, twenty feet away?”
“She’s right, y’all,” Yoley said, still staring at my ax in awe. “Thyne company of warriors still hath a mission to attend to.”
“So the Bloodletter really told you our weapons were useless?” Glam asked.
I nodded.
Everyone looked down at their own weapons warily. Though they trusted the legend of the Bloodletter, they also likely couldn’t deny feeling at least somewhat comforted, even if falsely, by holding on to their swords and axes and maces. Nobody made a move to leave their weapon behind as the Bloodletter suggested.
“Okay, then, let’s keep moving,” Ari said, her own battle-ax still gripped in her right hand.
We continued on toward the blue glow, weapons drawn. Toward the terrible screeching that seemed to make my knee joints rattle together like chattering teeth. The mausoleums to our sides were so tall now that it felt like we were in a slaughterhouse being forced through a chute toward the killing floor.
The glow was coming from a small clearing near the center of the cemetery. We stepped into the light.
And there it was: the Moonwraith.
A shimmering blue Specter hovering off the ground, she circled a plain mausoleum no larger than a small shed. It was covered in dozens, perhaps hundreds of sets of XXX in various shapes, sizes, and colors, drawn on by markers and spray paint, some etched right into the concrete. The glowing phantom howled and shrieked with agony and wrath as she floated back and forth in front of the vandalized tomb. We gathered around her in a half circle.
She finally noticed our presence and stopped in midair, turning to face us. I got a look at her up close and the image would now be seared into my brain forever, unfortunately.
I swore I even heard the Bloodletter gasp at the sight of her (telepathically, of course, since, you know, an ax can’t actually gasp).
The Moonwraith was nothing more than a semi-translucent skeleton covered in a thin layer of withering skin, draped in rotting flesh and shreds of a filthy greenish-gray nightgown that likely used to be as white as fresh snow. Her curly black-and-gray hair waved wildly around her head almost like tiny snakes on a Medusa. Her face was gaunt and ghoulish, her teeth surprisingly white under the rotting flesh. Her eyes were gone and the empty sockets flickered with blue-and-orange flames that swirled inside the skull like fog. She opened her mouth to shriek again and a green snake with red stripes poked its head out and flicked its tongue.
“Oh my gods,” Boozy said solemnly. “I think it’s Marie Laveau.”
“Who?” Ari asked.
“The Voodoo Queen of New Orleans,” Tiki said in an awed whisper.
“Did she die in some horrible, tragic way?” I asked through another of the Moonwraith’s awful wails.
“Nay,” Yoley said. “She passed on right peacefully amidst a slumber just beyond eighty years fusty.”
“Well, something is torturing her soul enough to bring her back as a Wraith,” Ari said. “We need to figure out what it is—”
She didn’t get to finish. Because just then the wraith swooped in, charging at her with flames licking from her eye sockets. Ari dove out of the way as blue light and swirls of smoke spewed over us.
Lake quickly leaped up and swung a short sword at the Moonwraith as she floated by. His blade passed right through the glowing Specter.
See what I mean? the Bloodletter said. Useless.
Ari rolled into a crouch and placed her hand on the ground. She closed her eyes and I knew she was attempting to summon a spell. The ground rumbled and shook and the earth split open beneath the Moonwraith. Vines and roots unfurled from the newly formed crevice and twisted up toward Marie Laveau’s tortured apparition. The Wraith casually glanced down at the magical vines and roots and they suddenly incinerated out of existence, leaving behind only trails of sour-smelling gray smoke.
/> We scrambled as the Moonwraith shrieked again.
“How do we stop this thing?” Glam shouted.
Nobody had an answer as the Moonwraith raged around us. We all crouched behind separate mausoleums, dumbly staring across the ethereally lit cemetery at one another with helpless expressions. But then I realized something: Everyone else wasn’t just staring at one another in a wild panic. They were all staring directly at me (in a wild panic).
The NOLA Dwarves in particular seemed to think I would just be able to come up with an easy solution to defeat this thing. And suddenly I hated the idea that I was famous among Dwarves. It felt like my heart was being crushed right inside my chest—like I didn’t have a magical talking ax or amazing friends to help, like all I had was me, myself, and I. And the crushing pressure of being expected to rise up and become a great warrior, a great leader, like my family name supposedly portended.
I remembered what my friends had told me about my destiny all those months ago, the very night I first met them and found out I was a Dwarf. They’d said: You come from one of the most courageous Dwarven families ever known to exist. And then they’d regaled me with a tale of how extraordinary my ancestor Maddog Stormbelly was for leading his troops into battles where he was far outmatched.
I wish I could say that was what pushed me into doing what I did next. That I was feeling the courage, the power of my bloodline to fulfill my destiny to be a hero. That I thought I could save everyone and be the great warrior everyone assumed I already was.
But the reality was, I did it out of pure fear. Fear that I had led my friends here and gotten them into this situation just so I could find out how to fix my dad. And now I’d have to watch them suffer for it. The thought that my friends might be harmed (or worse) trying to help me was scarier than anything the Wraith might have been able to do to me.
The Curse of Greg Page 15